CALL GIRL

She uses her pretty face to set meals on her table
Her bills get paid by the swiftness of her hips because her brains aren’t able.
At least that's what she tells herself to get through the day

At night the company of strange men silences the thoughts as she offers them a lay.
Two, three, five rounds depending on how deep his pockets
Currencies assigned to orgasms popping his eyes out of their sockets.
He jabs deep into her, digging her pelvis like a man in search of a treasure
He has a family at home, a paying job but in her hole is where he finds his pleasure.
“Call me Daddy” he instructs as she stirs his excitement wild
For a moment she wonders what daddy would do this with his child.
Three years, eight abortions because her womb is no home for his seeds
His only use for her is to satisfy his own feeble needs.
He’s weak in the world but in her bed she makes him feel stronger
A little extra cash on the table to make the foreplay last a little longer.
Her pleasure is secondary to his; he doesn’t notice her self-lubricating
Though it’s her he pictures in the office bathroom when he finds himself masturbating.
Three nights a week for two hours, she almost looks forward to his visits
Who knows what he’ll ask for next so her leisure time is spent practicing flips and splits
One drawer is full of condoms of every size, color and odor
The other with birth control and morning after pills just in case he decides to go in raw.
She’d tie her tubes but she has silent prospects of a husband and a kid
Believes she knows the secret into the heart of men and waits on the timing of cupid.
A mistress of erotic arts bearing naivety like her is often unseen
Her thin waist, voluptuous ass and breasts hold back that she’s only sixteen.
“I’m only doing this for the money” has grown into a four year old chant
The way out for an orphaned child oppressed by empty days and an abusive aunt.
Prostitution is a trait for many growing girls in her neighborhood
The elders give up on them and cry that they’d amount to nothing good.
She remembers very little of her father and she knows he wouldn’t be proud
But he had left her alone in a scary world and for that her actions were allowed. 
She thinks of her mother with a lot more grace
Reminds herself of the effortless smile that rested upon her friendly face.
“Mama, I want to be just like you” her mind hears herself utter
Mama replied “You won’t be like me my child. You will be better”.
And when she’s drawn into the words her mother had said
She whispers “I’m sorry” as another stranger occupies her bed.

LOVESTRUCK

I sit stark naked in the dark waiting on inspiration to spark

I’m tearing my thoughts apart in a mental shark attack

Hoping to embark on a journey that puts my reality on a gurney

Only to be resuscitated when I need it back.

My past and future fade to black while I stay searching strings of things

It’s like I’m running a marathon against springs;

I’m always snapping back to you.

You who stars in every episode of my playwritings

 All one million of them till I fix you into dark skies as night lightings

And you have never looked so beautiful.

Your shine has never felt so dutiful engulfing me in its radiance;

It’s you who leaves me delightful even from a distance.

It’s always you who sight’s full of great things done and the greater yet to come

Your passion that never succumbs when challenges drum

Your modesty that sits above your ego is the body that links the path of where you’re going to that which you’re from like two opposable thumbs

I’m walking right beside you so there’ll be no need fill the road with crumbs

Just forgive my shrieking voice when I start to hum.

…But I’m with you.

You who bore to me your beliefs, fears and defects

And danced with me despite my faults without a halt

You, with whom the absolute was derived from two imperfects

I see a man whose choices weigh a ton

Never a broken nor uncertain man but he whose empire stands undone

I’m asked why I love you, why I call you “The One”

Above all of mothers’ sons

Why I choose you.

But they haven’t seen extraordinary

No, they haven’t met us yet

They may have been in contact with a carbon copy

Or from a distance familiarized with our silhouette.

Let them come up close and see we’re exquisite

Sublime, magnificent in a way that the normal can’t help but anxiously quiz it

We’re desirable like milk-bathed skin

Surreal yet completely genuine

It’s this love we’re in

That thin thread between insanity and actuality on which we tread

Give us Lord our daily bread and together; body, heart and head, we are fed.

This love that guides us to what resides on the other side of distant hills

That fills our souls on adventurous rides and heart-thumping thrills

You’re that sentiment that keeps ink to my quill

Yes I love you, always have…always will.

There's a burn inside my chest that gets my insides to churn.

A passion that turns me towards a path that I yearn

I am loved and I love in return.

SOULLESS

I woke up without my soul today.
Last night before I slept I left it dillydallying around the concepts of love, life and other prospects
I've wrecked my mind in search of it, checked everywhere in my heart down to the insides of my pockets
Strange, but I was thinking maybe it got caught looking for some change.
I've widened my search range to the street, begging complete strangers indiscreetly what I could give in exchange for theirs.
My soul-seeking desperation reeking of fears peaking into tears leaking down my face and smears what composure I've held through the years.
Who has it, what ditch does it lie in?
Where could it have gone, could I have kept it from fleeing?
My questions echo through the hollow residue of my being
Maybe I should pray so I’m down to the floor kneeling, praying wordlessly to a God I claim to believe in
.Maybe I should sleep now and see if it returns in the morning.

But what if my soul doesn't miss me?
What if it’s running wild through the fields like an untamed child screaming “I AM FREE, I AM FREE”
“Free of this tiring lunatic chasing after things she can’t have and still can’t figure out where she belongs
Free of embarking her childish fantasies that gets so damn frustrating as the journey prolongs
Free of excusing the misuse of her life, at this age she still can’t confidently walk in her own shoes
They’re always too tight or too loose
Sometimes I even give her the option of going barefoot but she still won’t choose.”
I imagine my soul lying in a hammock on a beach in Maui
Sunglasses on, sipping on margaritas glad to be rid of me.

I let my body sleep but my soul I never let rest
So today, my bones and flesh must do all the work and endure the stress
Today I woke up soulless.

WAR

Before humoring it in distasteful chatter

Let me remind you first that war is no joking matter

War is thinking of home with such piercing pain that the nothingness of a stranger’s place found in the strangest of places appeals to the numbing emptiness that provides the only room for rest

It is the stories of seen but unspoken evil refugees and the stranded many carry heavy on their chests praying to whatever they can bring themselves to believe in that it should never again manifest

War is what breaks a man’s soul when he does the most questionable just to exorcise what little control he has over a situation that draws his family to its knees

It’s a woman whose dignity is stolen from her even in the discomfort of her abode so her entire family sees

How does she heal herself in time to teach her little girl who suffered the same episode before she begins to see herself as nothing more than just a wet hole?

War takes the penis of a barely teenage boy out of his hands and puts a gun in its stead so in his head a finger on a trigger is how to masturbate

War is these ugly truths told to you straight without much room to exaggerate.

It is no specific target of gun shots and indiscreet slaughtering in the streets.

In Sierra Leone, they ignored pleas and grieves before they cleaved arms like branches off trees and blood dripped down helplessly like leaves

The dismemberment of another flesh and blood was reduced to the levity of long or short sleeves

Rwanda saw 800,000 killed within a span of one hundred days, that’s eight thousand humans a day, three hundred and thirty-three an hour

Six lives devoured a minute worsens the taste of what’s already sour all in the name of so-called power

The falling rain itself came to be a reminder to the people of Liberia that they were under attack

In 1990 the heaven’s cries met gun powder in the skies so when it poured down, the water was black

There are media footages from DR Congo, Somalia, Burkina Faso, all publicly accessible but remember not all the details were archived

Many of us will go deprived of the sordid reality lived by many of those who survived.

All die be die be lie to the living

When you’re given the displeasure of seeing the spirit of your loved one escape him and the emotion your feel first is hatred before you even get the chance to mourn

And know now that war knows no age so even babies fall victim before they’re born

War is missing brothers, fathers, sisters, mothers and lovers better off assumed dead because your soul is just too weary for hope to beget

War is me at twenty-five, seventeen years after my family got out alive convincing myself the object that flew unrecognized by my eye wasn’t a bullet

The one I believe I had seen, eight years old locked in my neighbor’s tight room with steel doors because that was our definition of a safe haven

Rebels a few years older than me trapping two dozen of us due to our fear of what they could do with an AK47

That kind of fear grows with a child’s imagination so there’s no more telling what’s real and unreal regardless of what truth is revealed

My truth is what eyesore my mind told me my eyes saw

War is me still too scared or angry at the nightmare to ask what we were fighting for.

Wars are the singular cause of the mental deconstruction of a people with no therapy to their tragedy

They are a sadist’s feast of rape, murder, cannibalism, abuse and everything tragic

The human comparison to the ugliness of the foretold black magic

War brings out the evil side of evil and is its own justification of immorality

War is the unnatural decomposition of humanity

The sensitivity of this issue is paralyzing without a doubt

So please don’t make light of this because war my dear people, is nothing to joke about.

WHAT IFs

What if I just showed up at your door?

Heart on my sleeve, pride crouched down to the floor

Hope in each knock and when you opened up, your dreams in my eyes were all you saw

Plus just a few more and I could ever so clearly see mine in yours

What if words needn’t be spoken so the silence needn’t be broken?

Our lips shut closed but our hearts remain widely open

What if you grazed my hand as a token of emotion?

Of this heartbreaking separation we’d been forcibly soaked in

What if you managed my name in a soft tender whisper?

And yours escaped mine innocently like a kitten’s purr

What then would you prefer when feelings begin to naturally stir?

That I leave or come back to love, much deeper than we ever were?

My request is simple;

Be mine while I be yours, let us be a happy people.

What if we gained some closure to this our rollercoaster?

Then towards you I took the first step closer?

What if my every word got transferred through the passion that we weigh?

And all you heard without a doubt was what I couldn’t say?

What if our feet should meet somewhere in the middle

And the rest of us would greet prior our familiar cradle

If the sigh we exclaim should relieve pressures in my brain

Would it be so insane if the pleasure we gained would forever remain?

What if God himself should come down to bless our union?

And restored the faith of an aching man and woman.

I’ll lend more than my hand just so you comprehend the extent of this love I have for you

That it not be abused or misconstrued because I choose to lay it all down for you

See, our idea of love and love’s ideas may sometimes vary

But we’ve engaged them so surely at some point the two must marry

What if these whats ifs were the first move to a second chance

Would you walk away or shall we dance?

HE DOESN'T WRITE ANYMORE

He doesn’t write anymore.

Before, he would wade in the water till the sea hurled to shore his words galore

But he’s internalized his hurt and his disdain remains unfurled

So I can no longer relate to his pain and heal him from the world.

He doesn’t write anymore.

As if he didn’t know I consumed his inscriptions of a thousand tongues like it was air to my lungs

And I could breathe in the echoes of a throng of his melodies

But his verses are missing from a song of memories

His lyrics no longer belong.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took a nap and woke up to a time his art no longer spoke

Like he broke his pen or lost the wave of its stroke

It’s like a curse I wish to revoke; so bewitch me, cloak me

Otherwise tear these blank sheets from his book, please

Un-produce them and re-erect the oak tree.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took the wrong course and got trapped behind the door of an unworthy cause

And his words have been held hostage lest taken by force

But he’s weak and addled, a tired horse without a saddle

He can only pray for help from a divine source.

He doesn’t write anymore

Though I wish he would.

I wish to inspire him from the ground up; I wish he stood.

I’d dish him food to nourish his mind up; I’d feed him good.

Just to inspire him to write a little bit more

I wish he would.

WHEN A WOMAN FEELS

When a woman loves it intrigues,
Her siblings, friends, colleagues
Her gracious warmth and care stands in a league of its own
And the loyalty that’s shown may as well be carved in stone.
When she says she loves you
She defends your life, honor and anything in between
And after motherhood with those emotions heightened
She cares a little more
Sees you a little differently
Appreciates you a little past when she did before
A woman who loves is a companion worth living for.

When a woman feels
She skips, she glides, she twirls
And like by the wave of a magic wand
She's turned into a little girl.
Daydreaming of kisses and someday becoming his misses
This is just an abyss of bliss reality sometimes dismisses
But when she begins to love a man the fantasy vanishes
As she embodies all her desires, dreams and wishes.
She no longer just wants to be his wife,
She becomes the pillar of strength he needs in his life
And his strife for success becomes hers as well
For when a woman loves there’s no story of endurance her voice can't tell.
A woman in love bears passion so intense she beams
and sometimes it seems a bit extreme
but behind closed doors it's what makes her scream.
He's never heard so loudly his first, middle and last names
plus that of a few supreme beings
a woman's love is the most passionate of all things.

A woman's heart breaks along with her body and soul
Her head aches as her mind loses control
Pieces of her shattered self know not where to fall
she feels everything at once yet nothing at all.
Numb-founded at the pain, dumbfounded at the idea of trust again
but she hides it behind eyes clear and white
without a single trace of the past teary nights.
And when the hurt threatens to trickle down her eyes,
She shies away and cries them dry till they once again tell the “I’m fine” lie
A woman broken-hearted struggles to live after she has died.

So hold her gently
Love her sweetly
Kiss her warmly
Speak to her softly
She likes to look tough but inside she’s as fragile as a child
She sometimes seems hardened but beneath as easy as a smile
Show her there’s nothing to be scared of
For it’s a beautiful thing when a woman comes to love
Tales in a thousand tongues can’t tell it well enough.

Inspired by Efo Dela's ars poetica: When A Man Feels [ http://t.co/HgpwfAmO ]

UNKNOWN

I sat knees folded on the edge of my bed
On the verge of crying out thoughts unsaid
Before me he kneels; his hands caught in mine
Eyes meet eyes, lips in line
The silence was all we heard.
We're about to break up or make up
Or lie in the familiarity we found in between
I saw in him the love and pain I felt in me
Apologetic over a dirty slate we both must wipe clean
He doesn't know how to, I can't seem to show him.
He spoke in whispers, the words barely leaving his mouth
But like a sixth sense I heard them even before they came out
He's saying goodbye without letting me go
I'm walking away greeting him hello.

In the middle we sit, together uncertain
The companionship is bliss amidst the hurting
If we're to leave here with nothing or all
Do we rise or fall beyond the curtain call?

We're a long road from the first kiss
And this feel of his lips on mine could be the last
Lest we dare to dare another genesis.
Leave us be or let us be more
Friends at heart, lovers at soul
Strangers in no place but the before.
Our embrace holds too tightly to tell
A hearty welcome or an agonizing farewell?

REVOLUTION

We are greater than it’s been said
Our blood flows thicker than that which our forefathers bled on battles they led
That which they shed upon our heads in anointing
We are discerning people who yearn and labor to in turn be more fulfilling than that on which we fed.

We are artists, decision makers and steadfast entrepreneurs
Enriching our earth with blood, sweat and tears to last past the years
Into decades, centuries and millenniums
We are the new age of freedom
From us comes a new age to stage change.
We do no lay on our backs side-tracked by monetary gain
Or tread on old paths picking up old crumbs that remain
We are the innovators, the no-Sayers to preachings the vain proclaim
We reject imitations and limitations set a stepping stone to esteemed heights
We are not fixated on stardom although our succession shines bright.

We are truth seekers, articulate speakers voicing the noise of the silent; the vibrant strength of the weaker
We are our brother’s keepers
Sisters who don’t chase misters just for a taste of a little glitter
We protect and respect our own for we are them
We are men, women and children joined at the stem
We are fine-cut stones
We are gems.
Diamonds in the African rough
Sought after and made to believe we don’t blend in with the dirt and the scuff
They intend to take us to a foreign land to be refined, that is, pretend to be one of them
But we remain grounded with the rest of the pure stuff
To hell with their graces,
The pride we bear is enough.

We are illumination to a bleak vision
The reconstruction of a forgotten mission
The proclamation that a nation broken within itself must be its own salvation
We are the revolution.
Stand Up !

WHO I WRITE

Look past the comments and likes and tell me what you really like about the words that I write. 
Are they like your dark thoughts brought to light or slight light sparks seen at night? 
Does it bring sight to the blind or life to your mind or the kind of truth only words can find? 
Do my rhymes bind the broken times like a straight edge on dotted lines? 
Like lyrics fitted perfectly where melody chimes? 
Do I get through to you? 
Are my words a righteous life force that tells a story and inspire you to write yours in spite flaws 
Does it clear up your vision when your sight’s sore? 
Or hand you goals against the odds just to even the score? 
What do my words stand for? 
Do they take you back to what was to relive on past glory 
Or from history birth out a new story 
His story, her story, my story, your story 
Stories of the good, bad and the gory. 
Do I make you sappy, happy or sorry. 
Cripple you like a broken lorry
Or itch your feet to move to the groove you’ve refused to dance to because of those who’d disapprove. What do I sound like to you? 
Am I shy like a girl to her high school sweetheart? 
Daring and defiant like ghetto street art? 
Or do I creep up on you like Biggie used to do right after the beat starts. 
How dare I use I and Biggie in the same line though 
Pardon me, maybe I juggle a couple of words just so I seem smart.
My mind’s berated with questions making incisions in my brain 
My curiosity won’t refrain me from asking. 
Do you think I show you the real me or am I masking? 
Do I talk like I walk or am I just multi tasking? 
Who am I to you?